Midnight Madness

by Kendall, Karen

  But it was an extremely bad idea to cut someone’s hair under the influence…so she’d wait and have her wine after they’d locked up.

  She welcomed her 11:00 p.m. client, Regina Santos, and sent her off to be shampooed. Marly’s thoughts turned renegade again, toward Jack Hammersmith, his bare chest and his mouthful of waffles. The way his tongue had licked the whipped cream from the corner of his mouth. The way he’d looked into her eyes as if he could see into her mind, and his calm certainty that she was The One.

  The One what? The one who’d tell him that the Hammer wasn’t going to nail her?

  JACK HAMMERSMITH successfully dodged Turl’s urges to take an extra vitamin and got dressed in front of the maid whom Housekeeping sent to remove his room service cart. He gave the maid credit for waiting until he put on his shirt and tie before she asked shyly if she could take a picture of him with her camera-phone.

  He said, “Sure, sweetheart—do you want a photo of us both?” Turls pressed her lips together and did the honors, before almost chasing the poor woman out.

  Jack would much rather have signed two dozen autographs or taken as many photos with hotel staff than get down to work with Stephen Lyons and Jorge Martinez, his top aide and his campaign manager, respectively.

  But they barged in at 9:45 a.m. regardless of his personal preferences, and worse, they forced him to crack open the thick manila file folder on the suite’s desk. They pulled out three of the yellow-flagged documents and handed him a pen snagged from behind Martinez’s ear.

  “Do you wash those ears?” Jack teased him, pretending to wipe earwax off the pen. “Because I know you’ve always got one or the other of them pressed to the ground, spying and dragging them in the dirt.”

  Martinez shot him a cool glance. “That’s why you pay me the big bucks.”

  Lyons started yakking at him about pending legislation in the Florida state senate. When he paused for breath, Martinez jumped in. “I’ve hired a professional PR firm just to manage your press coverage—and consult on your image—during the campaign.”

  “Great, more people to push me around,” Jack said in jovial tones. “Well, I’m sure they’ll approve of my haircut. You like it, Lyons? Marty?”

  They stopped talking at looked at his hair. “It’s great, Jack,” said Martinez, and moved on to a new topic: the train wreck that a public school initiative had become. Lyons made a circle out of his thumb and forefinger, spreading his other three fingers wide in the A-Okay sign.

  “Hey, Lyons? Your wife—does she ever wear blue nail polish?”

  “What? No. Twelve-year-olds and rock stars wear blue nail polish.”

  “And artists, wouldn’t you say? Creative spirits.”

  “Jack, can I get you to focus, here?” Lyons asked.

  “I’m very focused,” said The Hammer.

  “Oh, Christ,” said Martinez. “What inappropriate woman are you obsessing about now?”

  “She’s not inappropriate. She’s perfect.”

  “Jack, if she wears blue nail polish, she is not perfect. I have one name for you—Hilliard. She’s beautiful, she’s connected, she’s got style and wit and fashion sense. You’ve known her all your life. Now will you please, for God’s sake, get engaged to the woman? It could make or break your reelection campaign.”

  “That’s crazy. It’s not my prospective wife who’s running! I got elected single last time. Why is it so important that I be coupled now?”

  Martinez sighed and sat in a club chair. He spread his knees and dangled his clasped hands between them. Not a hair on his head fell forward, however; it was all sprayed into place.

  “The polls, Jack. People cut you some slack before because of the way Lady Annabel dumped you so publicly.”

  “I dumped her!”

  “A matter of spin, Jack. Poor Hammer, left practically at the altar…”

  “I would never have married her!”

  “Water under the bridge, Jack. The point is, now the polls are reflecting that people think you’re too wild. They don’t want a playboy running the state—they want a responsible, settled adult. They’d love to see little Jacks bouncing around the capitol lawn.”

  “I fail to see how that’s anyone’s business but mine.”

  “Jack. Don’t be naive. You’re a public figure with a political career at stake. You could be in the running for a vice-presidential seat in the next six years or so. Get your ass married to an appropriate woman or jeopardize all that. Do you hear me?”

  “Loud and clear, Martinez.” Jack cast him a glance of impatience, bordering on dislike. The waffles sat heavy in his stomach and the syrup and whipped cream gurgled. He should have eaten the damned whole-grain toast and omelet, but he was beyond sick of being told what to do every second of every minute of every friggin’ day. Leader of the state? Hell, he felt more like a trained ape.

  Jack, who’d grown up in politics like his father before him, found it hard to take it all seriously. Politics wasn’t his calling; it was Dad’s calling, but he’d found himself fresh out of law school and going into retired Senator John Hammersmith’s law firm, without even an interview. His experience was so alien compared to that of his friends, who clerked and schmoozed and interviewed wildly—everywhere from Miami to New York to San Francisco.

  He’d felt guilty and not particularly deserving of his golden-boy status as John Hammersmith Jr. born with a pedigree and dimples to match.

  His mother had a law degree and connections, as well. But if she wanted to, she had the luxury of fading into the woodwork and just being exceptionally well married. Jack wondered what it was like to have options like that; be female; choose your role in society.

  Did she feel guilty about not being more of a trailblazer? Had she burned her bra back in the seventies, only to walk right back into its harness like an obedient broodmare? He mused about it. Jeanne kept her mouth shut about such things.

  Martinez was waxing poetic about poll numbers and Lyons advocating that he play in some charity golf tournament.

  Jack nodded, the waffles in his stomach gurgled around some more, and he found himself thinking about Marly Fine. He put a hand up to his neck, still feeling her cool, efficient hands in his hair and the rhythmic snipping, eyes always measuring, gauging length and proportion and thickness.

  He had a lot of hair. If he ever let it grow, he’d probably resemble an afghan that had just stuck its paw into an electrical outlet.

  Marly had done an exceptional job of making him look suave and goobernatorial. But suddenly Jack wished he had rock star hair and maybe an earring through his nose; a different perspective on life and how to live it. A perspective that would make him more appealing to a woman who wore blue toenail polish and no bra and a long gypsy skirt that Jeanne Hammersmith probably wouldn’t give to the housekeeper for polishing the silver.

  He hadn’t lied when he’d said that the instant he’d seen her picture he’d known Marly was The One. He’d seen it in her cool blue-green eyes and the dark sheen of her hair. In the way she held herself and the tilt of her pointed little chin.

  She was the kind of woman who inspired love songs. She was a Helen…a woman who caused men to do crazy things. Such as tell her within moments of meeting her that she was The One.

  Jack grinned. Because she hadn’t giggled and blushed; she hadn’t taken it as a come on that could help her career if she played ball. She’d just told him flat-out that he was nuts.

  The general public didn’t tell Jack that he was nuts—only his inner circle did. So Marly had stepped into that circle without even trying.

  The public treated him with deference and respect that he wasn’t convinced he deserved. Then there was his father, who didn’t respect him much at all—but who envied him.

  “I didn’t have anybody’s coattails to ride when I got elected senator,” he was fond of saying—especially when he’d had a couple glasses of Basil Hayden’s finest bourbon. “I did it on my own steam.”

  Yeah, wel
l, some of us have more steam—aka hot air—inside us than others, Senior.

  Rock star hair. Yup, that’s what he needed for the reelection campaign. And maybe a sapphire nose ring instead of the blue silk power ties. He’d appeal to the younger demographic, create an identity for himself apart from the Hammersmith name.

  Jack blew out a cynical breath. Yeah, right. And I’m gonna grow a breast on my forehead, too.

  Because he was stuck with the Hammersmith name—and even worse, he was Hammersmith Junior. Chip off the old blockhead.

  He tried to focus on what Martinez and Lyons were droning on about now, but he had a hard time caring. Instead he wondered exactly what his great-great-grandfather had said first to the Italian girl he’d crossed continents to find.

  Had he said, “Signorina bellissima, I know you are The One?” Or had he actually employed some subtlety? Jack had never found subtlety particularly useful. Either people didn’t catch it at all or your message was diluted entirely.

  Subtlety was not to be confused with the fine arts of political innuendo and favor-currying. Now he excelled at those…but wasn’t exactly proud of the fact.

  Yeah, the more he thought about it, he needed to cultivate rock star hair and maybe one of those terrible little soul patches on his chin. That sure as hell would appeal to the conservative voters—about as much as a girlfriend who wore a long braid down her back and no bra.

  No bra…hmm. The Hammer suddenly wondered if Marly had a policy against underwear altogether. He really wouldn’t mind finding out.

  Chapter 4

  “SO?” SHIRLIE, the receptionist at After Hours, nudged Marly the next day. Her pale blue eyes sparkled with curiosity and every spiky, mascara-covered eyelash jutted forward eagerly, like antennae wired to collect information.

  “So, what?” Marly looked through a stack of pink message slips for any calls that needed to be returned before the evening. Misty Horowitz, Sandra Tagliatore, Janine Burbank. No—she could call all of them later.

  “The governor!” Shirlie kept probing. “What’s he like in person? Is he as hot as he is on TV?”

  “Hotter. Though he’s going to develop a belly to rival Buddha’s if he keeps on eating the way he eats.”

  “What does he eat? Is he nice?”

  Marly laughed. “He eats little boy food—waffles and syrup and whipped cream.”

  “So was he nice or did he treat you like the hired help?”

  “He was…very affable.” Besides being crazy and trying to use a bad line to get me into bed. Who does he think he is?

  “So what’s his body like? It’s hard to tell under those suits.”

  “Nothing wrong with the man’s bod,” Marly said before she could censor herself. “He greeted me without a shirt or shoes.”

  “No!”

  “Yup.”

  “How big are his feet?”

  Marly sighed. “You know, your obsession with penis size is really not healthy, Shirl. How many times did you try to find out the number of inches Troy Barrington sports?”

  Shirlie didn’t bother to blush. “I’m taking a survey for scientific purposes.”

  “Right. And my grandfather was a prima ballerina.”

  “So I’ll give you the goods on T.B. if you tell me The Hammer’s foot size.”

  Marly rolled her eyes. “That’s a myth, the foot size thing.”

  “It’s not! Research shows—”

  “Whose research? Let me tell you, the shortest guy I ever slept with, the one with the smallest feet, by the way, had the most gargantuan schlong.”

  Shirlie’s eyes widened. Then she thought about it. “Well, Troy has giant feet, judging by his shoes, but Peggy told me he’s hung like a piece of elbow macaroni. This blows all my survey results out of the water.”

  Marly poked her tongue into her cheek. “Did Peg tell you that when she was angry? Because I don’t buy it.”

  “Ohh.” Shirl stuck the eraser end of her pencil into her ear. “I didn’t think about thaaaat.”

  Be careful, hon, or you’ll shove it right out the other side. Marly grimaced at herself. She shouldn’t be so bitchy—Shirlie was a great receptionist and all the customers loved her. They hadn’t hired her because she had a Ph.D.

  “I’ve got to get ready for my next appointment, Shirl. Just give me a buzz when she shows, okay?”

  “Yeah,” said Shirlie, frowning in concentration, the pencil still in her ear. “So does the Hammer have toe hair? Because that can be a factor, too.”

  Don’t poke your eye out with that, little girl. The pencil obviously wasn’t tangling with a lot of brain matter.

  “Toe hair?” said Marly. “Uh, I really couldn’t say.”

  She went to the back of the salon, removed her scissors from the black nylon bag and stowed it away in a cabinet. Then she went to her station and started straightening things. She gazed fondly at the photo of her dad she kept there; acknowledged a tinge of guilt that she didn’t have a picture of Mom there, too. She sprayed the mirror with Mountain Berry Windex and wiped it clean. She stared at her makeup-free face and wondered just what it was that Jack Hammersmith thought he’d seen in it to feed her that cheesy line. Gullibility? Naiveté? General lack of intelligence?

  Okay, so there was a hidden romantic part of her that thrilled to the story of his great-great-grandfather and his Italian bride. But there was also a big part of her that said, hey—even if it’s a true story—the woman saw an opportunity to marry a rich American and have herself a bit of freedom and adventure in a whole new world. She could have just been an opportunist who didn’t want to marry the village shoemaker or butcher. By no means was it sure that she’d fallen in love….

  “Oh, gawd,” said Nicky behind her, into his cell phone. “He wanted me to turn vegetarian for him! Yes! Can you believe it?”

  Marly tried not to listen to what Nicky was talking about. The last time she’d overheard one of his private conversations, she’d found out more than she wanted to know about the possibilities of chest hair transplants. Imagine a guy having hair-plugs on his chest.

  “Get out!” Nicky shrieked.

  She winced.

  “I don’t believe it.” He ran a hand through his sun streaked golden locks. “You’re telling me. This Internet stuff is for the dogs…except dogs are luckier. They just run up to each other and sniff each other’s butts.”

  Okay, I just do not want to hear this phone call. Marly headed to the kitchenette for some green tea, shaking her head. Nicky was definitely the most flamboyant gay man she’d ever met. The others she knew were a little more subtle, a little more restrained in their demeanor. Nicky was a neon gay pride banner with a built-in squawk box.

  Speaking of squawks…that sure sounded like Shirlie up front. Had a cockroach crawled in the door? Marly went up front out of curiosity, remembering too late that it had killed the cat.

  Governor Jack Hammersmith smiled at her from the doorway while behind him, two bodyguards—or secret service or whatever they were—scanned After Hours for thugs, terrorists or kidnappers.

  One of them honed in on Nicky’s orange spandex pants. The other one honed in on Shirlie’s twenty-two-year-old breasts.

  Marly gaped at The Hammer. “What—are you doing here?”

  “I thought I’d just stop by to see if you had time to—“

  “I’m all booked up,” said Marly. “Sorry.”

  “Actually,” said the ever-helpful Shirlie, “you had a cancellation at two, and, as you can see, Deirdre is more than ten minutes late, so you could take him now.”

  “Fabulous,” said the governor with a smile that would have had Mother Teresa on her back within ten seconds. He stuck out his hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Jack.”

  “I know who you are!” gushed Shirlie. “Ohmigod, you’re twenty-times-better-looking-than-on-television! Sometimes the makeup’s too heavy and the color’s off and they make you look orange, know what I mean? And close-up shots with that gooky powder
can be soooo gross, right? Anyway, I’m Shirlie! Welcome to After Hours, the salon and day spa!”

  “Er, thank you, Shirlie,” said Jack.

  “So do you like public speaking, or does it bother you? I just hate public speaking.” Shirlie babbled. “My palms sweat and I shake and I always wonder if I have lipstick on my teeth or mascara smeared under my eyes or my bra strap is hanging out. You?”

  “Well, I don’t have those particular, uh, issues, but I do know what you mean.”

  “Ohh! I wasn’t trying to say you’re a drag queen or anything, you know? I mean, that would be pretty funny, The Hammer with his bra strap hanging out, ha, ha, ha!”

  “Ha,” agreed Jack, politely. He cast an alarmed look at Marly.

  “Did someone say drag queen?” Nicky skipped up.

  “No.” Marly was emphatic.

  “I could have sworn someone said it!”

  “Governor, if you’ll follow me into one of the spa treatment rooms, we’ll use that so you have privacy.” She shot him a tight smile and put her hand on his shoulder to steer him back there. The two secret service apes lunged forward, one with his hand in his jacket.

  Her eyes wide, Marly said, “I specialize in color, not assassination or recreational kidnapping.”

  They didn’t crack a smile, but The Hammer did. “It’s okay, boys. I tried to tell you, that really was art camp she attended in her junior year of high school—not an Al Qaeda training program. All she can do is draw me.”

  Dear God. They really had done a background check—a thorough one. They knew about…Suddenly furious, she said in clipped tones, “Wouldn’t I have murdered him yesterday morning, boys, scissors to the jugular, if I had such festive plans?”

  She turned on her heel and marched away, wishing that her rubber flip-flops would bang across the floor instead of whisper silently.

  “Temper, temper,” Nicky murmured before she was out of earshot.